


Judgements

by Sc0208



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, College, Dancing, Drinking, F/F, F/M, Female Friendship, First story, Friendship, Girls Kissing, Lesbian Character, POV Female Character, POV Original Female Character, POV Second Person, Party, Romance, University, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27722225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sc0208/pseuds/Sc0208
Summary: A sudden burst of affection erupts within you - you smile at her - dismissing the nickname she gave you in exchange of feeling relief that someone, that she, noticed your absence. When you go to bed that night you feel happy and included - you’ve made friends - you danced with her - and you’re actually looking forward to the following day.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Judgements

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I’ve written in a long time - and I wanted to share a slightly fictional retelling of my first term at university. Please help a new writer and comment/critic below. 
> 
> xx Shivvy

Rather ashamedly, your first thought of her is that she seemed like a typical white girl bitch. You’re standing in the corner having just come through the door, and make quick judgements on the almost-adults around you, as if, in some way, it would make up for whatever non-existent assumptions they make about you. So it carries on this way for the most of the night - _her third glass of wine is a weak attempt to cover up her overbearing personality_ \- _he’s pretending as if his music playlist isn’t basic emo shit_ \- and so on... but then you see _her_. 

She’s talking loudly, merrily - arranging the colourful blocks of hand-painted Jenga pieces in the centre of the table - her box-dyed, bleach-blonde hair hanging in a long mess around her slim figure. You hate her at first sight. She’s got the outgoing nature you wish you had; she, very obviously, is the life of the party, drawing people in and chatting to strangers as if she’s known them for years. You make a pact with yourself then and there to keep hating her for the rest of the year - to keep your distance, and avoid her as much as possible while keeping an outwardly nonchalant persona. Yet - subconsciously, you wish that you could be more like her - you wish that she would talk to you, draw you in as she is doing with everyone else - _you wish that she would like you as much as you hate to admit you like her._

The rest of the night passes by in a similar manner - sipping on a cheap glass of _gin &tonic _\- introducing and reintroducing yourself to your new flat mates - hoping that your mild attempts at socialising don’t seem as desperate as you know they are. You go to your room under the pretence of first-day exhaustion, get changed and lie in your bed, hoping that at least one person would remember your name the next day.

-

You don’t think much about _her_ for the rest of the week, crossing paths a few times in the kitchen, exchanging the usual _hellos_ and _goodbyes_. You don’t make any new friends either - your crippling social anxiety keeping you secluded in your room - and when asked about your self-isolation, you spout some shit about having too many lectures to catch up on. 

The ping of your phone alerts you to a house-party that would be happening that night - you would usually avoid these with excuses about coming from a sheltered background. But tonight - in a fit of loneliness and hope that somebody would care about your presence, you think - _fuck it_ \- and grab the bottle of £5 wine from your cupboard and go downstairs - hoping that the alcohol would help you lose your overwhelming sense of detachment that had been a part of you for so long. 

The first thing you see when you go downstairs - in the midst of flashing lights, loud music and drunken 18-year-olds - is _her_. She’s dancing in a generic, skimpy burgundy dress, using clearly practised moves while singing loudly along to _Fluorescent Adolescent_ by _The Arctic Monkeys._ Unexpectedly, she shouts your name upon noticing you - opening your bottle of wine and proclaiming your need to catch-up - all the while, dragging you into the centre of the room. A sudden burst of affection erupts within you - you smile at her - dismissing the nickname she gave you in exchange of feeling relief that someone, _that she_ , noticed your absence. 

You get drunk that night for the first time in your life - content to jump up-and-down with the music - singing badly along to your favourite songs - feeling happy, warm, tipsy, together for the first time in a long time. All the while, _she_ grasps at your hips - forcing you to dance along with her, holding onto the belt on your skirt, as your newly made friends cheer and laugh around you. 

When you go to bed that night you feel happy and included - you’ve made friends - you danced with _her_ \- and you’re actually looking forward to the following day.

-

The next few weeks passed in a similar manner - you drink with her, dance with her, talk to her about everything and anything. You stay up all night and comfort her while she talks about her family - her life and all the problems that came along with it - you help her count her breaths through panic attacks - and she lets her “white-girl” persona drop, so you can see the beautiful person behind it. 

One night, when you’re both drunk and happy and dancing with your flat mates - she saunters across the floor to you and _kisses you_. You draw it out as much as possible - preparing a speech in your head of all that you feel and think about her, ready for when you eventually have to break apart. When her lips leave yours - her arms around your neck - your dark lipstick smeared across her small mouth - she giggles - kisses you one final time - and then you watch - your hope breaking - as she wipes your lip stains off her mouth - and moves to kiss her friend standing next to you. Her actions showing that the kiss hadn’t meant anything to her other than friendly drunken antics, that would just become another _‘when-I-was-in-university’_ story to tell in the future. 

You walk slowly back upstairs to your room - disheartened and tired and embarrassed and lonely again - get changed and go to bed. 

You spend the next two weeks holed up in your room again - only emerging when you know everyone else is asleep. You ignore the knocks at your door and pretend sickness. And you feel that lonely, overwhelming sense of detachment creeping up on you again - pulling you down into extended periods of sleep and isolation, as you trace the old scars that go up and down your arms. 

-

When you finally leave your room at an appropriate hour, and enter the kitchen, she shouts your name and races over to hug you - her slight form wrapped around yours. Mouth racing to tell you all the news you weren’t around to see for yourself. 

She has a boyfriend. It’s the guy from the first nigh - the one doing a music degree, with long curly hair. You have to admit that he is rather nice - another one of your quick assumptions proven wrong. You look over at _her_ and she seems happy. So you put on a matching expression.

There is one thing - you think to yourself - and that is - you will never make such sudden judgements again. As - no matter what happened - you can’t imagine not knowing the beautiful person standing next you - watching her smile at the handsome boy with the curly hair - content with the fact that its not you.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment xx


End file.
